My dad loves Spam. He likes fried Spam sandwiches and Spam hash and Spam sushi and...well, anything with Spam. But he especially likes Spam for breakfast. Pancakes with fried Spam with lots of butter and maple syrup is a favorite and I enjoy making it for him whenever I have a chance. My pancakes are light and thin and I add a little oatmeal as a "secret" ingredient.
But fried eggs and Spam is his very favorite. He likes the Spam sliced thin and
fried crispy, the eggs over easy, peppered and served with fried potatoes, toasted crusty sesame bread, orange juice and black coffee.
I always enjoyed making breakfast for him when I was a teen. We would chat together in
the kitchen as he glanced through the paper while I got everything
together, pouring a cup of coffee for him to sip while he waited.
Funny how I remember every detail of those mornings all these years
later, especially the aroma of coffee, the frying Spam and toasting bread, thick
slabs in the toaster oven, the scent of the Valencia oranges as I sliced
and squeezed them, the crackle of the eggs as they hit the hot grease
in the skillet, the rustle of the newspaper as my dad folded the paper
and set it aside when I brought his plate over, his delight as he took
his first bite and told me I was the best cook ever, as if frying Spam were some great
culinary achievement -- but he meant it.
Dig in, Dad!
What's the point of this post? Oh, I guess it just reflects how when you are not able to be up and about your mind, to occupy itself, rummages around through your memories and retrieves long-forgotten episodes, even quite trivial ones, from your past. I suppose nothing that has ever happened to you is ever truly forgotten.
And now I want pancakes!
